


The Pale Horse

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, F/M, Melancholy, Paranormal, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:26:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is cold, and he is dying. He hopes it is soon.</p><p>The reaper approaches and is somewhat confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pale Horse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyenah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyenah/gifts).



> Answered a picture Tumblr prompt ("write about this picture), link is here:  
> http://blackmajjicduchess.tumblr.com/post/134308896668/writeworld-writers-block-a-picture-says-a
> 
> I don't believe the Tumblr post credited the artist, but the picture linked back, so that's here:  
> http://boban-savic-geto.deviantart.com/art/Homeless-390277939
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)
> 
> I'm gifting this one to amyenah, for having the courage to post her first fic. :)

* * *

It’s about ten degrees below zero, but he’s not sure whether he’s too hot or already frozen. It hardly seems to matter anymore. There’s an empty hole in his chest–-has been for forty years-–and no amount of food or liquor can heal the ragged crater she left when she died. Maybe that’s why he can’t find meaning in anything. Maybe that’s why food tastes like ash and cheap rum tastes like shattered dreams.

He sits on the same bench every day in the park where they met and later married, glassy eyes staring into what he believes might be the sun. He doesn’t know. He hasn’t seen it in God only knows how long. The only reason he knows he hasn’t been blind his whole life is that he still remembers the way she looked in that blue velvet cloak he bought her for their fairy tale wedding. He can see the brilliant white of her smile between wine-red lips, knows exactly the shade of burnished gold of her curls when the sun hits just right, and remembers the charcoal gray of her white mare’s nose as she rubs in a circle around its broad, flat cheek. So when his sightless eyes rise up to meet the glare of the winter sun, he pretends. As long as it’s quiet, it’s a sweet lie that works.

But it’s not often quiet. The park that was once a haven of flowers and squirrels in their youth is little more than a cramped courtyard now, surrounded on all four sides by buildings that feel taller than they probably are. More often than not, it’s full of people taking a break from their instantly gratifying lifestyles. They don’t remember what it was like to ride ahorseback, nor do they appreciate the slow dance of courtship. They can’t find music in silence, but seek ever to fill the world with more data and chaos than the earth can sustain.

He’s dying.

He’s been dying for forty years. He’s only sorry that it has taken this long. He’s tried to rush the process along, but something always seems to get in the way. He’s too cowardly to be deliberate about it and he’s too careful to be reckless. The best he can do is drown away his feelings with rum and wait for nature to take care of the details.

He waits on the bench for the day to come. _When_ he passes, he wants to be here. He knows she waits on the other side, the veil sheer between them like a curtain of rain. His back is bent now, but he’s certain he can still help her into the saddle.

He squeezes frozen hands together and cannot feel them. Despite that, he fumbles around beside him for the burlap bag. He hasn’t opened it in years. When he gives her back that cloak, he wants it to be as clean as it was the day he brought it back from the cleaners. He bangs his knuckles on the wrought iron legs and feels nothing. Fortunately, the rasp of rough fabric is a sensation his body remembers, and he finds the bag.

He breathes a sigh of relief, and it’s the last one he needs before he’s just… ready.

* * *

The reaper rests, floating somewhere between earth and its origin, waiting for the call of the dying. It is one of many reapers, but its territory is vast and it is quite often busy. The modern man seems hell-bent on hastening himself toward his own destruction. He fills his body with chemicals and bastardized food, travels in weaponized iron and exposes himself to harmful levels of radiation daily. He cares not at all for the sensitive nature of flesh and is blissfully unaware of his own mortality. Modern luxuries have prolonged his life so that he may debauch himself, and he does so with gusto. It is a rare and appreciated moment when the reaper is allowed a respite.

It is one such moment.

The air is delightfully cold, and for reasons it does not care to dwell upon, the souls crowding its corporeal form seem lighter on chilled air. It tips its head back and pretends to smile. Snowflakes swirl around its position, lazily riding currents. It is a quiet, pleasant day. When sun sets, the temperature is bound to drop precipitously. The reaper appreciates a good cold snap.

When the colors bleed through the bleakness and the sun dips below the edge of the world, the reaper receives its first signal in hours. Drawn by instinct alone, it rides the current with the snowflakes. Its solid form dissolves into little more than smoke, roiling upon itself like fog. Any that might have seen it, were such a thing possible, might have mistaken it for a wisp of cloud.

It callously guesses vehicular collision, what with the bright day and sudden drop in temperature. It is surprised, therefore, to find itself in a deserted park. For several ticks of the clock, it watches a dying man, confused. Fleeing worldly souls are often ready and awaiting its arrival. Injury, illness, or exhaustion hastens their decision to leave. The reaper’s job is seldom difficult. There are sometimes stubborn ones, yes, but even then-–humans are either firmly of the mind of dying or living.

This man is both.

Even now, his body severs ties to life as quickly as it can. The man’s extremities are colorless and dry, fingers curled up near his mouth for the warmth of his breath. His knees tuck up near his core. But even as the reaper knows this to be a biological response to the inevitability of freezing to death, the reaper recognizes the look of defeat. He is dying, but in his heart he has been as one dead for some time.  

Despite that, he is still fighting, and the reaper can only guess at why. It is curious now, and approaches, and it is then that it notices the bottles of rum–-one empty, one full, and one spilled–-and the lumpy bag behind them.

And it is then that it realizes that it has not come for the man, but the bag behind him. Drawn by a gravity that it neither comprehends nor needs to, it goes. Skeletal fingers reach out from the shapeless smoke, and when they contact the bag, it knows why it has come.

To _this_ park.

To _this_ man.

For _this_ bag.

…

She remembers.


End file.
